Cries for peace heard loud.
But still the coffin flags furl,
on warm summer days.
War is great for greed,
and sacred prejudice.
And as the bruised
petals weep tears.
Some drink to the good
old days, cemented in their soul.
A great white ghost of nostalgia,
watching the lifeless torsos
rotting in the summer heat.
An indifferent anthem to life.
A Wandering Poet 